


Strangely Sweet

by stateofintegrity



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-08-08 02:35:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16420748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stateofintegrity/pseuds/stateofintegrity
Summary: Batman and Joker come to an unusual agreement.





	Strangely Sweet

There is something obscene about this scenario – or maybe _surreal_.

Of course, these moments have never felt completely real to me, but tonight everything feels unmoored, unsubstantial. I look down and see that the seat touches my armored legs, but I can’t quite _feel_ the seat against my back and thighs or the wheel beneath my gloved hands. Maybe it’s his fault. His overbright eyes – looking at me so frank, clear, and open – they aren’t the kind of eyes that ought to look out of a monster’s face. He sits like a child, fraying purple coat bunching up over his shoulders like wings; he’s right on the edge of his seat – visibly excited. Seeing him this way is disarming and the last thing I want to be in a small space with a knife-wielding maniac is disarmed.

“I’ve always wanted to see inside this thing,” he admits. There’s a softness to his voice, a certain exotic musicality and I wonder about his background. I wonder if he can sing and if he does.

“Don’t touch anything,” I growl back. The strangeness of the situation colors my tone; the sound of me is black volcanic glass studded with chunks of gravel.

He notices and gives the gentlest laugh; this is not the sound of the carnival clown, the jester of this grim, dangerous playground where we usually meet. This is the laugh of a friend who knows me too well and who is – by the sound of him – trying to get me to join in and laugh at myself. For a moment, it seems like his voice wants to build a golden bridge between us.

He must have injected me with something back there. I thought he was broken; I had to lift him up by his collar and there was plenty of blood in that alley, but he’s fooled me before. I shake my head. I am imagining the Joker capable of aural peace offerings!

Sensing my internal argument, he laughs again.

“Why are you laughing at me now?” I’ve tempered the timbre; now my voice is bold, heroic. Superman calls it “the very dark iced coffee voice.” Alter ego aside, he never was a very good writer.

“Don’t get your wings all ruffled, Bats. I was just wondering if your throat ever hurts – keeping up the super hero dialogue. I know what you sound like for _real_ , you know.”

I don’t answer but push a small button. In front of him, a compartment opens to reveal a stash of lozenges and hard candies. He unwraps one and tongues at the golden sweetness before taking it into his mouth. It’s profane, but he reminds me of a nature show I saw once; he’s like a hummingbird or a bat taking nectar from a night-blooming flower.

His madness may be contagious; his blood has been on my hands enough times – maybe some of the taint seeped in?

 

“So where are we going since you went to all of this trouble to get me here?” I am surprised at his patience. I’ve been circling back roads, taking him away from people that he can kill, but he seems content to simply be here in the car. Maybe he has hostages stashed somewhere. Once in awhile his fingers reach out and stroke the interior as if it were a cat. Cats like him. I managed to get him back in Arkham once because during our chase he stumbled across a litter of kittens. Their mom had been killed and they were hungry, mewling. He let me pummel him, but he shielded them and I _had_ to take them in and find them homes; he insisted on that from inside the police car. I had to make weekly reports until he was satisfied they were safe. This from the man who kills _people_.

He’s quiet as if he knows I am meandering through a labyrinth of thoughts and memories, wondering about all of our other nights, wondering exactly what type of deranged arithmetic allows them to add up to this night.

“Waffles,” he says at last.

“Waffles?”

“I like them, but I never get to eat them. And who wants to eat waffles alone, anyway? I know a place.”

***

It turns out that the Clown Prince is telling the truth. I know Gotham intimately, but I would have bet against the existence of a diner where we could walk in – fully costumed – without making a single head turn. The name of the place clues me in to how Joker discovered it: we’re having a late night dinner at _Wicked Waffles_. The world-weary waitress slaps menus down in front of us before shuffling away to get tea for me and a s’mores milkshake for the Joker.

His grin sharpens – the corners of his mouth moving toward his eyebrows – when I shoot him a questioning look and ask how he still has any teeth in his head. “I’m celebrating having your undivided attention, Batsy. When you’re not around it’s nothing but salad and smoothies.”

He’s thin enough that I can half believe it. Next time I get him behind bars, I’ll send a fruit basket. “And now that you have my undivided attention?”

He frowns at me, his eternally busy hands organizing packets of sugar by color. “This is one of the problems with you, Batsssss.”

He’s the only person I know that can add seventeen s’s to a word that ought to have none. “What’s that?”

“You’re all business, business, business. Eat some waffles, Batsy. Then we’ll negotiate.” Laughter sets off candy apple green flares in his eyes. “Can you eat with that mask on?”

The waffles arrive in steaming stacks. Butter runs down their sides in rivulets and fills the depressions in the crisped dough. I can’t think of the last time I ate waffles, but the sweet smell of them wakes my stomach up. It reminds me of the calories expended chasing the Joker across the city, gathering him up in the alley, and watching over him in the car. I trail lines of syrup over the stack and see him grinning at me as if to say that he knows me better than I know myself, knows that I need to eat. Has he brought me here out of some kind of misplaced care?

Adrenaline flashes through my nerve ends when he picks up a butter knife, but he just cuts the waffles into manageable triangles before lifting them to his mouth. His elegance is even more out of place than my armor, but he doesn’t even seem to notice it. It’s not an affectation.

Worst of all – I think that I kind of like to watch him eat. I shake my head and blink against the naked bulb hanging above the table and turn to eating. I think that I hear him say, “Thank you, Bats,” very, very softly.

When only smears of syrup remain, he looks me in the eye. “I want you to go away with me.”

I choke a bit on a mouthful of ice water. “What!?”

“You can choose the place. You can do all of your batly things – make it safe. I won’t hurt anyone before we go or while we’re there. In return for your company, I won’t hurt anyone in your precious city.”

I can imagine few worse phrases than the phrase “in return for your company” falling from the Joker’s lips.

He sees my unease. He reaches across the table, strokes my armored arm. “Bats, tonight turned out fine.”

He’s right. I’m uninjured. I’m well fed. There are no new bodies in the city morgue. “Fine.”

Maybe I’ll even make him more waffles.

 

 

 


End file.
